Unfinished Tales, Volume II
by Blancwene
Summary: Unfinished stories, Star Wars edition.
1. The Lovely Shall Be Losers

_AN: From the same lazy bum imagination that created Unfinished Tales, Part I (the HP version) comes a SW version, filled with bits and pieces of stories which I started but which – for some reason or other – were abandoned. So sit back, wear a smoking jacket and a bib, and enjoy._

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**Unfinished Tales, Part II**

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_So gay a Flower  
__Bereaves the Mind  
__As if it were a Woe-  
__Is Beauty an Affliction- then?  
__Tradition ought to know-  
-_Emily Dickinson

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**The Lovely Shall Be Losers**

I've always wondered about the correlation between a person's name and their fate in life. Would bearing the noble nomenclature _Apubabi_ brand you as a pacifistic homebody? Would calling your little son _Han Solo Brandeis_ inspire the child to pursue a life of smuggling and heroism? For our names are not just a simple word our parents use to identify us from the five trillion other brown-haired, green-eyed babies in the galaxy. They contain a bit of our personalities, and perhaps even the key to our destinies.

So, how does that relate to me?

I believe that all the bad events in my life are a direct result of my mother's poor name choice. I have lived the past 30 years as Psyché Zezilia Nadeau, the only daughter of Naboo rock farmers. Apparently, _Psyché_ means "soul" and _Zezilia_ means "pretty grey eyes" in my family's native tongue, but I don't care. They may have beautiful meanings, but that doesn't stop the teasing and the odd looks at all. I remember the teachers, coming to my spot on the daily attendance record and snickering, or the prank comm calls from idiotic teenage boys stammering, "Psyché, are you psychotic? Or psycho? Do you want to become a psychoanalyst?"

It wasn't like my name carried family significance. No, Marcel and Yané Nadeau bestowed upon me this damning title because they wanted me to live a life of originality and uniqueness, with a carefree soul.

I think it was leftover guilt on my mother's part, for as a young girl she spent a staggering ten years as one of Padmé Amidala's handmaidens. She was chosen for her physical resemblance, combat skills, and ability to easily follow orders, not for the fact that she was the first Naboo woman to run the 100-meter dash in ten seconds. She wanted me to pick a career where I could just be me.

So I tried to do that. I left for Theed, moved in with my grandmother-or-something Naberrie, and took a job as a secretary at the Imperial office. I may have hated all the Empire stood for, but when money is tight any position starts to look good. I slaved away 60 hours a week typing memos and organizing different financial agreements, yet after taxes, taxes, and more taxes my weekly paycheck only held 150 credits.

I began to look for outside work, part-time things I could do on the side. Several people had mentioned that I bore an uncanny resemblance to Princess Leia Organa, so I searched for a job as an impersonator.

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_AN: Once I got this far, I realized that this story was revolving from a five page vignette about one of Leia's doubles – with parallels to Padmé's handmaidens – to a possibly massive action story about a woman searching for her true identity. I had too many longer WIPs that I was working on already, so I just put this story aside._


	2. Violence is Not a Virtue

_AN: Note to self: never try to write a story during AP history class. Last year, I was very bored while my prof was covering the Cold War when I started writing a short story about some Adumari OCs of mine. I got the first two parts done, then it died, because I realized that it was just a SW gender-bending knock-off of Jane Eyre._

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**Violence is Not a Virtue**

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It figured that the head carpenter would choose me to be the scapegoat. I was the youngest member of the work team, eighteen years old but looking much younger thanks to my neglected, dust-covered mop of hair. It wasn't unusual for the other men to single me out for punishment when someone screwed up. Maybe I gave off the aura of a victim, attracting bad luck like a light draws glitnats. Maybe I just had cursed stars deciding my fate.

"Ke Maideri, we're two days behind schedule. Go tell Madame, but be careful - she's been in a bad mood lately."

I wasn't looking forward to the task set before me. Iarla Bacherr, _perator_ of Halbegardia, bore a reputation second to none. For not only was her father a foreigner, but she had been raised on exotic worlds like Mon Calamari and Corellia. She had a strange accent, odd habits . . . and that wasn't the worst part.

During fits of rage, her abusive tongue and tendency to violence were inconceivable to her relatively sheltered subjects. Madame Iarla possessed a vocabulary that put pilots to shame. Her subordinates were constantly in fear of her abrupt mood swings, which could be triggered by anything from a squeaky floorboard to a hiccupping chambermaid.

I wasn't any different. Standing before the entrance to Her Lady's private study, I was shaking – literally trembling. I used to pride myself on my unfaltering courage; but now? I was scared of a woman. I knocked tentatively, heard a peevish "Enter" in response, and stumbled inside.

I took a long look at Iarla Bacherr – partially to satisfy my own curiosity, but mostly to survive the other men's interrogation when I returned. She was utterly unlike Adumari women: dark-haired, ivory-skinned, with a symmetry and purity of form that reminded me of an old engraving my mother had of the Goddess of the Night. Her mouth was curled down indolently, her lashes brushed against aristocratic cheekbones – they lifted, and her eyes caught me. They were pale and light, a shocking mix of blue and grey, burning with a passion that contradicted her overall languid expression. She was not what I would have called beautiful; yet striking, gifted with an allure that made it difficult for me to lower my gaze.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but—"

She rose slowly and stalked towards me. She was unbelievably tall – her head was equal with mine, and I was known for being of great stature. I swallowed uneasily.

"What do you want?"

"Ma'am, the head carpenter has sent me to tell you that—"

"If you have bad news, don't be oblique."

I toyed with the ruler on my belt. "The work team is behind on the grand hall repair, ma'am. It is hard to refinish the wood molding, as you know—"

Iarla's cheek twitched. "How far behind are you?"

"Two days."

"Dammit." Her skin began to flush, and I noticed a tightening about her mouth that did not connote good humor. "Kriff the heavens above. Kriffin' hell. How long have you known this?"

I took a few steps backwards. "Several days, ma'am."

Her eyes blazed and roamed around the room wildly. "Tell your krelling boss that I want all efforts increased twofold. I don't care if everyone works overtime with no pay. Shavit, I need that finished in a week's time!"

"Yes ma'am. I'll try, ma'am."

She began to inch towards a porcelain vase, and I sighed. If I got bashed in the head with an antique, I would not be responsible for my actions. Madame Iarla Bacherr might be a spitfire demon, but if irritated my temper broke most bonds of convention. I hated how others maltreated me, and occasionally my exasperation expressed itself in my actions. I prayed that she wouldn't throw it – and for a second, I thought she didn't have the nerve. Then, those bright, mad irises glinted irefully; she grabbed the ceramic pot impulsively, and hurled it at my unfortunate head.

Panic must have slowed my reflexes, for the object collided with my left temple before I had time to move. I felt keen pain, the trickling sensation of profuse blood, the accelerated bounding of my heart. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I snapped. Lost all control, all restraint. It wasn't proper, but sithspit, I was pissed off. What right did she have to chuck things at me? Nobility and elegance couldn't excuse the rudeness of the matter.

"I'm a human being, not a wall, you little wench. I'll ask you not to throw things at me."

Iarla stamped her foot indignantly, and started towards a glass globe. "Don't you tell me what to do!"

I ran forward and grabbed her wrist in a vice grip. "I can say whatever I like. I'm injured thanks to you, you impish jade! Now listen to me, ma'am: if you attempt to knock my brains out again, I won't be this gentle. I'll make you forget your own social standing."

"Kriffer. I hate you. Let me go!" she bit out, trying to wrench herself away. I tightened my hold, hoping that her stupid hand would be crushed. "Let me go!"

"The work team will finish when they're ready, ma'am. Perhaps in the meantime you can acquire some manners."

I twisted her arm backwards, and laughed as the tears rolled down her red face.

"You kriffin' man, I'll kick your arse to damnation!"

"Ma'am, nothing could be worse than having to converse with you."

She raised her other hand to slap me; I caught it mid-swing and jabbed down on one of her pressure points. She dropped to her knees ungracefully and growled in a combination of pain and anger. I released my grip, smiling smugly as she fell to the ground with a loud thump. My head still throbbed, but I felt satisfied. I had endured one of Iarla Bacherr's rages – in fact, I had proved myself her superior. I walked towards the door triumphantly.

"I'm sorry. Would you like a tissue?"

I spun. Iarla was kneeling, her eyes calm and full of – was that embarrassment? She waved a scrap of white fabric sheepishly.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "When I'm upset, I just can't contain myself. Will you please take it?"

I crept towards her suspiciously, snatched the tissue, and dabbed at my cut. It didn't seem to be especially deep, but there was far too much blood for a simple gash. She stood awkwardly and took the hankie out of my hands.

"You need to apply more pressure. Take deep breaths, and relax your facial muscles. Let me see what I can do."

I felt a sharp, grinding push against my forehead; Iarla continued to mumble curses under her breath. As the seconds passed, the sensation began to increase, then abruptly stopped. She rubbed the linen cloth across my face and laughed softly.

"That seems to have done the trick. I knew there was a reason why Daddy taught me first aid. Isn't it a shame I have such good aim?"

"Perhaps." I backed up and studied her coolly. Her choler had passed so quickly that this worried, joking Iarla Bacherr seemed a stranger. "If you'll excuse me, ma'am—"

"Please, one minute." She ran a critical eye over my appearance. "What is your name?"

I bowed respectfully. "Haldan ke Maideri, ma'am."

Her lips twitched into a lop-sided smile, out of place with her regal demeanor. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. ke Maideri. From this point onwards, I appoint you my official representative of the carpentry department." She glanced at me again, then straightened haughtily. "You are dismissed."

I rushed out of the room, slightly confused. Iarla Bacherr undoubtedly had a shifting personality. Any more ponderings were soon lost as I became absorbed in my work.

"Did she blow up on you?"

I nodded my head, and smirked. A group of fifteen men had cornered me after my shift ended, eager for information about the infamous Madame _Perator_. "You could say so. She tossed a vase at my head." I pulled off my bandage to reveal the wound.

A murmur of disbelief ran through the gathering, and Farfex ke Delmur, the crowd's spokesman, frowned. "Bless my ancestors, she certainly slashed you. Will you be OK?"

"Yeah. It's just odd how quickly she flared up."

Farfex leaned forward. "I don't know where Madame gets that from. Her mother was strong-willed, but generally sweet-tempered. Must have come from her father's side. I've always said that Lady Juliene should've stuck with her own folk."

I tried to pay attention, but found it difficult to keep my eyelids open. "Colonel Bacherr was, what, Coruscantian?"

"Commenorian," Farfex corrected. "My wife was the cleaning maid once when he and Lady Juliene visited during the Harvest Feast, and she heard the Colonel using some absolutely coarse language to elaborate on his general opinion of Adumari customs. Did Madame Iarla curse?"

"Oh, yes. It was like I'd hit a profanity pipeline that couldn't be switched off."

The men groaned. A younger carpenter stood and waved his hand dismissingly. "But doesn't her appearance make up for that? So she talks like a man. At least she still looks like a decent woman."

"She's awfully tall," Farfex noted. "And she's got the weirdest eyes. No good Adumari has eyes like that. Lady Juliene, now – she was gorgeous. Long blonde curls, and always a smile on her face. Madame Iarla is just creepy."

I raised an eyebrow. "She reminded me of Selene of the Moonlight; more a deity than a human. That tantrum she threw wasn't quite normal – and would you believe it? After the whole ordeal, she asked for my name and then said I was the 'official representative' of the work team. I can't figure it out."

"Strange." Farfex's forehead scrunched in thought. "Maybe the fact that you didn't run away in terror made her more willing to listen to you. I don't know. But Haldan, I'd be careful. She's a peculiar woman – very curt and fitful. I'd always be on my guard. She's very much a foreigner, and that makes her dangerous."

I winked. "And we're trusting her to guide Halbegardia?"

"Of course. With politics, you need a leader with some edge. Watch yourself, ke Maideri."

"Oh, I'll be careful." I patted Farfex on the back, and began to shake hands with the others as they gradually filed out. "I do have an advantage, though."

Farfex looked lost. "What?"

"I know how to swear in three different languages. Iarla Bacherr seems limited to colloquial Core Basic terms, so I can cuss her out in Antiquated Halbegardian with no fear of either comprehension or retribution. This could be amusing."

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_AN: Yes, I gave up here. In case you can't tell, Haldan and Iarla were fated to get together around page 25, and live violently after ever – with the help of Wes Janson. And you can tell how heavily influenced I was by Jane Eyre at the time – the carpenter spokesman, Farfex, was more or less a reference to Mrs. Fairfax, housekeeper and unwanted-advice-giver from Brontë's novel._


	3. Marriage is for Dummies

_AN: Another story kicked the dust . . . basically, this was an NJO tale involving Kyp Durron, some OCs, and a lot of wedding-inspired humour. But I didn't want to get involved with another long WIP, so I buried this tale and its corresponding plot bunnies under my bed._

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-  
**Marriage is for Dummies  
**-

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Kyp Durron paused outside the door to his apartment, and sagged against the lockplate as exhaustion finally took hold of his fatigued frame. The last few months' preparations had ended surprisingly well at Sernpidal, and yet he felt glum, downcast. He should have been rejoicing that he'd struck the Yuuzhan Vong another deadly blow, but he could still see Jaina's irate face and feel the burning imprint of her hand on his cheek.

He shook his head, and punched the code in. The door slid open, and Kyp staggered over to the couch in the room's shady corner. He was home…but that statement wasn't quite true. Home was a family's true and permanent dwelling-place, and his family had been ripped to shreds 23 years ago. For the first eight years of his life, home had been a house on Deyer with his dad and mom and older brother. But the Empire destroyed that dream, and Kyp spent the next eight years of his life on Kessel. Kessel was harsh; Kessel was dreary. Kessel wasn't home.

Neither was the Jedi Academy on Yavin IV. As the years dragged on and he agreed with Master Skywalker less and less, he found that the _praxeum_ offered him no welcome. Old fogies like Kyle Katarn or Corran Horn were constantly berating his actions, and young Jedi were copying his every move. After a while, the combination of criticizing and idolizing began to wear on his nerves and he tried to spend as much time as possible away from the Jedi's sanctuary.

This apartment on Coruscant wasn't his home either, he decided as he glanced around at the bare walls and unfamiliar furniture. It merely reminded him of everything and everyone he had lost: his parents, Zeth, Dorsk 81, Milo, Wurth, his squadron's lost pilots . . . and now any regard that Jaina Solo might have fostered for him. As much as he tried to interpret it otherwise, _if you were dying of thirst on Tatooine, I wouldn't even spit on you_ were not reassuring words. Stang.

Rolling onto his back, he noticed the comm center blinking every few seconds, a clear indication that he had messages. He guessed that at least one was from Mara Jade Skywalker, a virulent rant about how he used her niece to satisfy his own means and how much she would love to roast his spleen. He smirked. When she was upset, Luke Skywalker's wife was neither subtle nor gentle. Kyp rocked to his feet, shuffled over towards the unit, then asked for an overview of the messages and their senders. 114 total. Four were from Master Skywalker (not surprising), one from Mara (perfect, Durron), two from Octa Ramis, one from Jacen Solo (inactive little coward), two from Corran Horn (probably about Kyp's latest spout with Luke), 23 from various wanna-be Dozeners, 41 from actual Dozen members. He blinked in disbelief at the final figure. The station reported 40 messages from Lady Juliene ke Greso.

Kyp smiled as he continued to scroll through the data. Such a large number could mean one of several things: Adumar had been invaded by the Yuuzhan Vong, Jule's uncle had died and she was now the _perator_ of Halbegardia, or Christen Bacherr had broken up with her. He doubted it was the first possibility, because if it were true he would have already spotted it on the news. Adumar might be on the edge of the Unknown Regions, but it wasn't backwater enough to be conquered without even a snippet appearing on the holos. The second idea was eliminated simply because he knew she wouldn't have called him so many times if she became _perator_. Jule would have been much too occupied to place two score calls to an absent Jedi Master.

That left his third thought. Despite Jule's protests that she and the pilot were "a perfect match," Kyp had always believed that their relationship would be like a fire you poured liquid nitrogen on; it would flare up fervid and warm, then die down to cold embers after a little time. An animated, unthinking social butterfly and a reserved, sarcastic introvert were such different creatures that similarities between the two must be close to nil.

He didn't dislike Chris; he actually thought quite highly of him. The man had been extremely kind when he allowed Kyp and some of his Dozen to hitch a ride on his freighter to Coruscant, and he respected the fact that Bacherr had quit his old job at Subpro Corporation to accept a commission with the New Republic Starfighter Command. He was generous, intelligent, and well mannered, but just not Jule's type. No, Chris Bacherr and Jule ke Greso might theoretically make a fine couple, but it would never work out in real life.

And maybe comforting his favorite Adumari lady would help push Jaina Solo to the deep recesses of his memory. Maybe.

He located the earliest message, one that dated from approximately two months ago, and called it up on the screen. Jule's face, a soft oval framed by bouncy gold ringlets and brightened by delicate features, dominated the image. Everything was as he expected, except for the absence of tears. Her hazel eyes twinkled, and try as he might Kyp couldn't see any suspect moisture hiding in those wide-set orbs. Maybe she was hiding her emotions so he wouldn't be concerned. Sinking into a nearby chair, he waited for it to begin.

"Kyp, I have some news for you. I'm hoping you'll consider them good ones, but you never know with those crazy Jedi Masters." She winked, then assumed a more serious expression. "I wanted to talk to you in person, but you're obviously not here, and when I tried to contact Master Skywalker at the number you gave me, he was very polite but wouldn't tell me a thing. Oh well. I'll have to settle for this impersonal form of communication."

He leaned forward. Sometimes, Jule's verbosity was just plain irritating. Why couldn't she be brief instead of dragging things on and on? Conciseness should be a virtue.

"Kyp, I just wanted you to be one of the first to know that…well, what I'm trying to say is . . ." She paused, and if she were there in person he would have smacked her. It was amazing that a 20-something dilettante had a comprehension of timing and suspense that put most holodrama directors to shame. Some people might have marveled at Jule's skills in that area, but Kyp was merely annoyed. Was the phrase "Chris broke up with me" too difficult to say? It was just five simple words. He would've had no problem uttering them, but it was quite clear that Jule couldn't accomplish such a task. She was a girl, after all. Females were odd creatures, with strange hormones and occasionally abrupt mood swings. Another reason why he found women so bizarre.

"I think this is the most wonderful news I could share with anyone. I feel so happy right now."

Kyp sat up straighter. By the Force, was she going to have a baby? He counted on his fingers, and discovered that "I think that I'm pregnant" was also a five-word sentence. Perhaps he was imagining things, but he would rather be prepared for all possibilities than hit from behind by a rogue idea. His anxiety grew.

"Well, I don't feel like keeping you in the dark much longer. You probably think that this message was specifically designed to internally torture you while I ramble on about nonsense. I'm sorry if it is. Although, I must say that I wish I could get a recording of your reactions at this time. They must be hilarious." Jule smiled, and dimples popped into her cheeks. "I'm getting married to Chris."

The revelation hit Kyp on his blindside like a turbolaser blast. Shavit. That certainly came out of nowhere. And coincidentally, it was another of those horrid five-word phrases. He would have thought there was a greater chance of Jule being pregnant than this. Independent Jule, getting married? She was too strong-willed, too unconventional, and too vivacious to let herself be tied down to any man by the commonplace bonds of marriage. And to kriffin' Chris Bacherr, no less.

He stumbled to the couch and threw himself back on it. He hated kriffin' weddings. Marriage was for asinine, insane, anile dummies. What was he to do?

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_AN: At which point I decided that I didn't want to write another story with Kyp and my OCs - because the prequel, "Juliene," evolved from a humorous short story into an 100+ plus page humorous action tale._

_Vignettes can be so much more . . . easy and soothing sometimes._


End file.
